Through Yourself and Back Again
by lost in my design
Summary: For the 'Make an album into a story' competition at the HPFC. Various characters and pairings. .
1. Love Alone

Love Alone

_When there's no place left for you to run_

_You can cast your past into the sun_

_Watch it light up the night_

_And honey, you will be fine_

._  
><em>

After eighteen years, he is defined by who he was, and he isn't sure who he is now.

He contemplates this existence. How odd, how ironic, that he, who always found humor in suffering, can find no relief for this suffering of his own. Self-consciously he rubs at the mark on his arm, this mark that defines his past. Does it define his future? He can't answer his own question.

The noise from the Great Hall has yet to die down. Nearly three hours post-victory, there are still shouts of triumph, which mingle oddly with the cries of sorrow. The resulting cacophony is overwhelming, and even here, in the dormitory he grew up in, he cannot escape it.

He does not belong to either of those noises. He has nothing to celebrate and nothing to mourn, so he sits, because the silence is the thing that fits him best.

He has been sitting there for a long while—he doesn't know how long, because that's the thing about silence: it doesn't keep track of time—when he hears someone fighting with the portrait outside.

"No, I don't know the password, I'm not a Slytherin!" exclaimed the voice, which sounded oddly familiar.

"No password, no entrance," deadpanned the portrait.

"You don't understand, someone is in there and I would like to talk to him," said the voice.

"No password, no entrance."

A yell of frustration from the voice, followed by a shout of pain from the portrait. "Was that really necessary?" exclaimed the portrait.

"Yes!" answered the voice. "Let me in!"

The portrait emitted a soft growl, then he heard the sound of swooshing air, suggesting that the portrait had swung open. "Damn students don't have any respect…" he muttered.

He briefly considers hiding himself away, pretending he isn't there, and allowing the owner of the voice to feel that she is mistaken. After all, he is nothing if not a coward. Instead, he lays there and lets her find him.

"And what makes you think I want to talk to you, Weasley," he asks, but there is no venom in his voice, for once, because he can't muster the energy or the hatred.

"I don't," she answers smartly. "But I want to talk to you."

"So I heard. You gave the portrait hell."

Although he has yet to sit up to look at her, he can hear the smirk in her voice when she answers, "I always do."

He wants to be angry at her for finding him, for wanting to talk to him, for caring. He can't. "So what do you want?"

It takes her a long while to answer. "You're more than what you've become."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you can move on from this. You don't have to be an asshole."

"But I'm so good at it."

She sighs. "Yeah, you are." And then there is silence for a long while, because she's trying to word this just the right way to make him see. "I know you hated Dumbledore and everything, but he says it better than I can. It is our choices that show who we are far more than our abilities."

He's quiet for a long time as he contemplates an answer. "I didn't hate him," he says eventually. "My father did, but I didn't."

She sighs again, then lays down next to him, budging him over so that she doesn't fall off the bed. How insistent, he thinks, but it doesn't really bother him.

"I wasn't going to kill him."

She meets his eyes for the first time, and she can see the honesty in them, the vulnerability that he so rarely shows.

"I know."

And then, because the moment seems right, she takes his hand, and is pleasantly surprised when he doesn't pull away.

"What I'm trying to say is you aren't your past. You can move beyond this," she says, and she touches his arm, and he jerks away and she knows she's hit a nerve. "Be someone else." She meets his eyes again with a small smile. "Something to think about."

And then she's gone, clambering out of the portrait hole ("All that fuss for five minutes! It couldn't have waited!") and he does think, and he thinks she's probably right.

He isn't his past. He is going to be just fine.


	2. On Your Side

On Your Side

_So no one told you it don't matter where the road leads_

'_Cause where we're going, no we won't need anything_

_And this is not goodbye_

._  
><em>

"You know I'm leaving," he says, and she manages a smile.

"Yes, I know."

"And you know you have to stay."

"Yes, I know."

He sighs. "I wasn't expecting you to take it this well."

"And why not?"

He isn't sure how to answer this, actually, because he guesses he was expecting her to cry, or beg, or fight. He realizes, now, that none of these are Luna. "You are always surprising me."

"Hmm," she says. "I guess I'll work on not doing that as much."

He smiles back at her. "I have another one for you."

"Yes?"

"You know we can't be together anymore."

Only a very small look of surprise crosses her face, which is quickly replaced. "Why not?"

"Voldemort won't stop at torturing you to get to me. He'll take anyone he knows is close to me."

"I can take it."

"But I can't." He leans down and holds her close. "I can't take losing you."

"Hmm," she says again, more quietly. "So you're leaving to have some grand adventure? To destroy Voldemort?"

It is the first time she has said his name, and Harry realizes this. He sighs. "I'm sorry."

She smiles. "It's alright, Harry. This isn't goodbye."

He wants to disagree but he can't find the right words. "You know that I love you."

A very small tear swims to her eye. "Yes, I know."

And then he kisses her, deeply, and it says everything he can't say. And then he turns because he can't bear to see her face when he goes. "Goodbye, Luna."

"This is not goodbye," she insists.

He thinks for a moment, then turns and catches her eye. "Farewell, Luna."

"I'll see you soon, Harry," she answers, a small smile on her face, and he leaves before he can turn to her again.

Later, when he sees her running into the Great Hall, her wand out, her mouth forming a hex, he realizes that maybe it wasn't goodbye, after all.

And then she falls, her head hits the floor with a terrifying thud, and he cries out because he never had the chance to say goodbye.


	3. Some Kind of Home

Some Kind of Home

_I wanna know where you go when you're dreaming_

_I wanna see what you see when your eyes close_

_And when it all goes down, will you have a place to run?_

_.  
><em>

Leave it to Percy to find a witch in the most Muggle of places.

As soon as he spots her, he becomes frustrated with himself. Wasn't he sure he was the only wizard who knew of this particular café? He supposes it doesn't much matter—she'll move on without noticing him, without even glancing in his direction.

"Percy?"

Perhaps not.

He looks up in faked surprise. "Hermione!" And then, as she crosses to him, he wonders how he ought to greet her. Since the war, he has kept his distance from his family, always coming home for holidays, but still not letting them in. He decides on the awkward half-hug and they embrace. He notices, with a slight blush, that she smells of caramel. She sits down across from where he had been reading a Muggle newspaper, which he folds and puts aside. "How have you been?"

She nods, begins to say something, and then stops herself. "The honest to God truth? I've been terrible."

Percy blinks, mildly surprised. "Oh."

Bravely she smiles. "But how have you been?"

He thinks over his answer for a moment. "Just okay."

"Are you still with Penelope?" she inquires politely.

"No," he says, and he tries not to let the bitterness show as he adds, "She left me, just after last Christmas. Said she wanted to be alone for a while."

"I haven't practiced magic in two months."

"Oh." He's sure the shock rather rudely is showing on his face, but he asks, "Why not?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know. I just wanted—I just needed away. I haven't seen Ron, Ginny, Neville—not even Harry," she says. There is fear in her tone and, oddly, it makes him want to reach for her hand. He didn't know he was so sympathetic.

"Do you miss them?" he asks.

She swallows and bites her lip. "No, and it scares me."

They sit in silence for a while, and Hermione nervously drinks from her coffee. Percy contemplates a response. Finally he musters, "Was Ron angry?"

"I don't know," she answers. "I haven't owled him. Harry's owled me, about ten times, trying to get me to come back or at least answer him. I don't know what I would say." And then, after another moment of silence, "I'm so sorry, I've been so rude. I don't even know why I'm telling you this—"

"It's alright," he says, and again he wonders where his empathy is coming from.

"It's just that you're the first wizard I've seen in so long," she rationalizes, more for her own benefit than for his. "Haven't you ever wanted out?"

Slowly, he nods. "I know what you're feeling."

She lets out a sigh of relief. "I thought you would."

She takes another sip from her coffee and looks out the window. There is a small brown line above her top lip, and he would very much like to wipe it with his thumb—what is with him today? He forces himself to remember that she is his little brother's girlfriend as he says, "You have coffee on your lip."

Embarrassed, she wipes it away with a napkin, and then the two delve into silence once more.

"So what have you been doing since you left your job at the Ministry?" she asks eventually, once her coffee is gone.

He is tempted to answer, "finding myself," since that would be the best definition of his absence from the Wizarding world and insomnia, but instead says, "A little of this, a little of that. I'm taking some courses through a Muggle university."

"That's great," she says. "Listen, Percy, I have to go—"

"Wait." They're both standing. "You should go back. See Ron, or at least Harry. They miss you, I'm certain."

"Do they miss you?" she asks.

He blinks. "I suspect they do."

"Then come with me," she says, and once she says it it seems so rational. Still he shakes his head.

"I can't."

"Then run with me."

He closes his eyes for a moment. "Hermione—"

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean….I just…" She sighs. "I know we can't. I can't."

She turns, about to leave, and before he knows what he's doing he grabs her arm, turns her around, and kisses her. The taste of coffee and caramel assaults him full on, and she pulls away far too quickly for his liking. Still, her lips are close to his, and her eyes meet his.

"If we go back," she says, and her breath is cool against his lips, "we can't ever do that again."

"I know," he admits. He rests her forehead against hers, pleased at the cool of her skin. "But we have to go back."

"Right." But neither moves. After a long while (in which, Percy reflects later, many of the café's other customers probably stare at them) he rests his hand lightly against her jaw. He kisses her again, slowly now. Finally, he pulls away and steps back.

"I guess I'll see you in the Wizarding world, then," he says.

"I guess so."

She turns and walks away, long hair bouncing behind her, and he watches her go. He sits back down, finishes his coffee and his newspaper, gets up to leave, and decides that this will be the last time he ever visits this café. He's going back.


	4. Where We Belong

Where We Belong

_And I have to be sure_

_That there's gonna be a cure_

'_Cause somewhere down the line_

_I lost the part of me that's pure_

._  
><em>

While she was not vain, she was beautiful, and she knew it.

Her constant fear was that she was looked at as a beauty and nothing more. The boys of Hogwarts, those who did not fear her, sought her for her looks. They cared nothing about her dreams, her plans—they desired her body, and left it at that. Disgustingly, she would, on occasion, allow their advances, allow them to fulfill their desire. She hated herself for that.

Add to this that she had been sorted into Slytherin, and she was the ready-made black sheep of her family.

The tension was not caused because her parents, her brothers and sisters, and her many cousins did not love her, because she knew they did. But while the whole of the Weasley clan had their Gryffindor status in common, she set herself apart from the very beginning of her schooling. She could not talk about "that one time in the Gryffindor common room," because she had never been into the Gryffindor common room. She did not regret her choice, but she did, on occasion, wish that one of her family members had made the same choice. This was usually after she let a boy kiss her in a broom cupboard.

He was different, though. He, like everyone else she had known before coming to Hogwarts, had been sorted into Gryffindor. He was a year older than she, and the only person she had known upon her arrival. He had never shamed her into feeling guilty about being a Slytherin. He had constantly been there for her, allowing her to cry on his shoulder when another boy loved her and left her. He had never left.

After five years of being alone, she finally realized that she wasn't alone, after all.

They are walking by the lake in mid-January. She is bundled up, her green-and-silver scarf wrapped around her neck several times and her hands shoved down deep into her pockets. He wears the scarlet-and-gold scarf loosely around his own neck and talks, gesturing hugely with ungloved hands. His hair is a deep gold today, and his eyes a warm brown. She wishes, briefly, that she could change her appearance at will.

"So anyway, he finally just got up and walked out, and Professor Binns didn't even notice! It was hilarious, you had to have been there." He stops and looks her in the eye. "Vic? Are you alright?"

"Yes," she says. Frost pours from her mouth as she speaks.

"You're lying," he says, casually tipping her chin so her eyes meet his. "Who do I have to beat up this time?"

"You don't have to beat up anyone," she says, a little exasperation seeping into her voice. "I got myself into it." And after his eyes continued to stare she sighed. "Thomas Hughes."

"That Ravenclaw bloke, in your year? I'll kill him."

"Not necessary," she intones. "It was mutual."

"That's a lie."

"Alright, I broke up with him."

"Did not."

"Fine!" She did not intend for her voice to be so angry. "He dumped me, alright? Are you happy?"

"No." He dropped her chin. "No, I'm not. May I at least hex him?"

"No, Teddy." She sighs again. "It's just as well, anyway." She continues walking, urging him forward toward the castle.

"It's not," he disagrees. "I can't stand the thought of you heartbroken."

"I think I'll live all my life heartbroken," she says, and then she realizes that she has voiced this aloud and claps her hand to her mouth.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks, stopping again.

When she removes her hand, she's frowning. "Let's face it. I've spent nearly three years now letting boys kiss me whenever they have the fancy and then letting them break my heart. Why should that change? Now, or when I leave here?" Again she has said too much, and she curses herself and looks away. Finally she mutters, "You can't protect me forever, Teddy."

"I can," he answers quietly.

"And how?" she asks.

It is slow, because she's cold and she has trouble making her lips move at first. And then she realizes what she's doing and pulls away. "Teddy!"

"What if I said I want you?" he asks, meeting her eyes. "What if you let me in?"

"I can't lose you," she said, shaking her head and feeling tears come to her eyes.

"You won't," he promises, and he kisses her again.

And for the first time, she kisses someone who is just as beautiful as she is.


	5. While the Candle Still Burns

While the Candle Still Burns

_You hesitate to start_

_You just stand there with your hands bare_

_And wonder who you are_

._  
><em>

He isn't sure he exists without him.

Because the two of them have always existed together. Two parts of one whole. Two bodies, one heart. One half-empty, grieving heart.

For days he doesn't move, hardly breathes. He lies in his bed and he tries not to see the other, now empty bed. He tries not to hear the celebrating, always the celebrating, in the Great Hall, in the streets, in the taverns. In his room, he does not celebrate. He grieves, and he is alone in this.

He knows that his family is grieving, but it is not the same. He knows that his friends are grieving, but it is not the same, not even close, because they weren't his twin, his other half, his best friend and confidante.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when she enters, bearing a tray of food. She doesn't say anything, but he can tell she knows. Knows his pain, his suffering. After a long while of bustling around with the food, she sits at the end of his bed, facing the chipped dresser.

"Ginny and Harry are playing Quidditch outside," she says. "And Ron is helping your mother with dinner, I think. Bill and Fleur might come over tonight." This conversation is meaningless and they both know it; why should either of them give a damn? For the first time in a long time, though, he isn't thinking about Fred.

"And you?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, and it is then that he realizes how long it has been since he has spoken.

She turns around and faces him, meeting his eyes with no hesitation. "I am here," she says quietly. "I'm not doing anything."

Carefully he sits up and examines the food she's brought. He ignores the toast and takes a small sip of the tea, which tastes wonderful. So this is life, post-Fred; tea still tastes the same and life goes on, and maybe someone does understand where he's coming from.

Eventually he finishes the tea and moves on to the toast, which, he hates admitting, tastes every bit as delicious as it always has.

"Funny," he says, although there's really nothing funny about it. "I thought toast would taste terrible after Fred died. I thought everything would taste bland and lifeless, but I guess that's just me."

He has said more than he meant to, and so he avoids her gaze and takes another bite of the toast.

After a long while, she speaks again. "You're not lifeless."

He looks at her.

"On the contrary, you are one of the most exuberant and life-loving people I have ever met." She is looking at the dresser again and twiddling her thumbs. "And that hasn't changed now that Fred is dead."

"Hasn't it?" he asks, and he could scoff at the desperation in his own voice.

She stands suddenly and paces, then seats herself next to him and takes his hand in her own. "No, it hasn't."

And he thinks that, just maybe, he believes her.


	6. Moonlight

Moonlight

_We're gonna fly_

_Like a white wind on a blue sky_

_Until we're dancing in the moonlight_

._  
><em>

He is a terrible influence on her, and for the moment, she doesn't care.

The moonlight beams down, inviting, tantalizing. The night air feels cool against her the back of her neck and sends goosebumps along her spine. Perhaps that is his hand in hers.

"If anyone found out we're sneaking out—" she started.

"We do it all the time," he answered, and he twirls her around. "The boys and I."

"Oh, alright," she says, "but just this once."

And so they dance, her hand held tightly in his, and she has never felt so alive. She thinks, for a few moments, that they will just lift off the ground and fly away, far from the Hogwarts grounds and into the sky. He stops spinning, and she looks up at him.

"When we leave Hogwarts," he says, and although it is apparent he wants to say more, he does not. He looks her straight in the eye for a long moment.

"Yes?" she prompts.

"Er—what are you doing? When we get out of here, I mean." He bites his lip.

She is a bit taken aback, but she thinks about it for a moment. "Well, I don't know. I thought about maybe becoming a Healer."

"Hmm," says James. He is quiet for a long while.

"You?" asks Lily suspiciously.

"I'm going into the Order," he says. She can tell he had been trying to find the right way to say this, because he looks so relieved.

She sighs. "I thought you would say that."

"You did?"

"I'm starting to notice that you have a thing for saving people," she says, "and that's exactly what the Order is trying to do."

"You're taking this very well," he says.

"I know," she answers, and he manages a smile. They are quiet for a long while, and he holds her close. She notices, for the first time, that it is a little chilly, and she shivers.

"I have to say something else," he says suddenly.

"Go ahead," she answers.

He looks her in the eye and says, "I love you."

She doesn't know how to answer this, because she doesn't want to disappoint him. She breathes deeply. "Kiss me."

It is not the answer he expects, and perhaps his surprise is what makes him oblige. His lips fall to hers, and they kiss, and she is reminded of why she finally said yes—he is honest, so honest, in everything.

She pulls away. "I love you, James."

He smiles. "I thought so," says he, and he kisses her again.

They resume their music-less dancing, and she feels, somehow, lighter than before. "About the Order," she says after a while.

"Yes?" he asks, spinning her around.

"Why did you tell me?"

He sighs and looks away into the lake. "All four of us are—Sirius, Remus, Peter and I. We're all going. We decided, last night. Peter's terrified, I think, but we're all in. You needed to know."

"You're afraid I'll leave." It is not a question.

"Yes, I'm afraid you'll leave."

She nods, and they continue to dance in silence. Finally, she stands on her tip-toes and whispers, "I'm not going anywhere."

He smiles, picks her up off the ground, and kisses her, and it feels more like flying than anything she has ever felt.


	7. Cobwebs

Cobwebs

_Should the dark fall upon you,_

_Don't let it get you down;_

_No I'll be trying to find you,_

_Don't let it get you down_

._  
><em>

She supposes she should let it go, let _him_ go. He is dead and there is nothing she can do about it.

Except that he haunts her in dream, begging to be found.

But where could she possibly find him?

_"Luna Lovegood," he says, and the way he says it sounds like a laugh, a musical sound off the end of his tongue. "Where did you get that name?"_

_ "My mother, I suppose," she says. She pulls her blonde hair back out of her face. "Would you like to go for a walk?"_

It is these memories that haunt her, that bring her closer to earth than she has possibly ever been. It is _him_, he has brought her back, brought her grief. Why can she hear his voice?

_The great black dog beside her is touching her leg, keeping her steady. She talks to him, tells him about her life, and he barks joyously and whines softly at the appropriate times. He is beautiful in this form, she decides, and then she decides that he is beautiful always._

She wakes in the middle of the night, screaming. She has dreamt of him again. Grateful that she hasn't woken her father, she slips out of the house, out past the Dirigible Plums and into the yard. The moon is full, and she is remembering him again.

_It should be wrong, to touch him like this. It should bother her that his lips are against hers, that for the first time in her life she is being kissed and the man kissing her is old enough to be her father. It doesn't. It only feels right._

It is then that she realizes she is crying, thinking of that memory. He is close, but she can't reach…

_He lays next to her, her breath mingling with his. _"_This war," he says, and his frustration is evident in his voice, "it's going to kill us all."_

_ "Hmm," she says. It is not like her to think in the present. "We'll be together."_

_ "We'll be together," he repeats, and his lips touch hers. "We'll be together."_

But not now. Now they are not together. She can't find him anymore. He is gone, and she has never been more alone.

_He falls gracefully through the Veil, and she can hear his voice—"Find me."_

She will never give in. She will _never _give in.


	8. Run

Run

_But you wanna fall in love_

_Do you wanna touch the light of morning?_

_'Cause it's who you're thinking of_

_(It's you I'm thinking of)_

.

Let it never be said that she doesn't take after her father.

She is nearly a carbon copy of him. Her red hair, her Weasley trait, falls in tight curls down her back when she lets it down—and she doesn't, usually, because she finds that it falls in her eyes too often. Her sister, Lucy, is blessed with gorgeously wavy hair and a real concern for it. Molly, on the other hand, couldn't care less about her hair. There are more important things (and she suspects she gets this notion from her father as well).

Unlike him, and unlike her sister, and unlike the rest of her cousins and extended family, she is not a Gryffindor. She is a Ravenclaw, and she is proud of it, so the rest of her family can shove it if they feel like mouthing off about it.

She sits in the common room enjoying a book—the _Chronicles of Narnia_, which her mother read to her as a child—and manages to ignore the rest of the world. Although their common room is usually a quiet, studious sort of atmosphere, their Quidditch team had just beat Hufflepuff, which was apparently something to celebrate. Molly doesn't care, as long as they beat Gryffindor and shut cousin James up.

And it is in this way that Lysander Scamander saunters over to her, plops himself down next to her, and puts an arm around her shoulder.

"You know I hate it when you do that," she says without putting her book down.

"You know you love it," he says, and she resists her urge to stand up and storm off.

"You stink like sweat," she says instead.

"We won," he says, "or didn't you hear?"

"Yes, I heard, and great for you. Go bother someone else."

"Oh, Molly," he says, and his words are laced with sarcastic frustration, "I do wish you'd look at me."

She frowns, but finally puts her book down. "What?"

He looks her in the eye and gives her a huge smile. "Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me?"

"Oh, honestly Lysander!" She stands up and slams the book shut. "How many times do I have to tell you no?"

"C'mon, Molly," he says, and for once he sounds serious as he follows her toward the edge of the common room. "Give me a chance."

"Lys—" she sighs deeply. "You're my best friend, and I'm not going to ruin that."

"Who says we're going to ruin that?"

"I've watched Lucy date enough to know. You date and then you ruin lives."

"You're not Lucy, though, and you have a clear head. You won't ruin this if you don't want to."

Molly bites her lip in frustration. "I'm scared, okay? I don't want to lose you, and if I lost you because of something stupid like falling in love with you, I would never forgive myself. It's for the best." She turns around and begins to storm up the stairs.

"It's not," he argues, and then he pulls her hand, and she spins and finds herself very close to his face.

"Lysander, please. I can't do this."

"Give me a chance, Molly Weasley."

She looks up into his eyes and finds herself shaking her head. "I can't."

And she flees up the stairs before he can say anything else.

She tries and tries to focus on Edmund and Lucy and anyone else's problems but her own, but she can't.

It isn't really a problem. Lysander is her friend, her _best_ friend, and she isn't sacrificing that to make out with him (even though she wonders what he tastes like).

Her thoughts swirl angrily in her head, and finally she puts _Narnia_ down again. "Damn it, Lysander," she mutters to herself, and then she swings her legs off her bed. She paces for a long time, and then she decides what she's going to do.

When she gets downstairs, it is much quieter. The excitement of the Quidditch win has died down, and there are only a few people left in the common room. To her luck, one is Lysander.

"Walk with me?" she asks quietly, and he looks up at her.

"Yeah, alright," he says, and he stows his books in a corner. He opens the common room door for her, and she thinks, very briefly, that chivalry is not dead, after all. "So what's this about?"

"Lys." She shrugs and focuses on walking, one foot in front of the other. "I said I'm scared."

"Yeah, I heard that," he says, and she can tell that his frustration is growing.

"It's not that I don't trust you—"

"It kind of feels like it is."

"—it's just that I don't trust myself."

"Molly," he says, and they stop. "Let me try something."

"What are you going to do?" she asks suspiciously.

"An experiment."

She looks at him and frowns just a little. "Alright."

"You have to close your eyes."

"Oh, honestly," but she obliges.

He cups a hand to her jaw, runs his fingers delicately over her face, whispers in her ear, "trust me," and then presses his lips to hers.

He tastes like Butterbeer, like chocolate, like every glorious thing she has ever tasted.

And then it's over, and he's looking her in the eye.

"Don't say no to me again," he begs.

"Alright," and it's all she can say, but it's enough. He smiles and kisses her again.

And maybe this part of her, her silly, romantic alter ago, maybe she doesn't get this from her father.


	9. Motorcade

Motorcade (So Long, So Long)

_I can see the motorcade_

_The sirens weep and the flowers have been laid_

_So long, so long_

_.  
><em>

For the first time in his memory, Number 12 Grimmauld Place is silent. He hates it.

There is no screeching Mrs. Black, because he succeeded in entering without awaking her. There is no Kreacher grumbling under his breath about the purity of his blood. There is no Mrs. Weasley bustling about in the kitchen.

There is also no Sirius, and this, more than anything else, scares him.

The Order had a small memorial service, as there was no body to bury. It was extremely morbid; everyone had dressed in black and cried. It wasn't the way he would have wanted to go. Had James still been alive, there would have been a hell of a party, and that he is sure of.

And then it hits him with a striking finality: he, Remus Lupin, is the last Marauder.

The weight of it causes him to stumble and fall; he sits awkwardly against the wall in the hallway. He feels empty inside, and this, too, is a first. He is accustomed to feeling guilt, shame, surprise; emptiness is not in his repertoire.

_It amazes him that he can be himself. He barely knows these boys, James, Peter, and Sirius, and yet he feels almost completely normal. As normal as a werewolf can really feel, anyway. Three boys—can he call them friends? does a werewolf deserve that right?—have accepted him, have embraced him. How strange._

He tries several times to pick himself off the floor. When he finally succeeds, he finds that he cannot support his own weight without holding onto the stair post. He takes a deep breath, straightens himself, and heads upstairs.

The walk is slow because he keeps distracting himself with the smallest things. A picture hangs in the hallway. It features the Blacks, and even now the picture-Sirius stands away from his family, a frown etched deeply into his face.

"Sirius," he breathes, and he finds himself grabbing at the tiny Sirius, willing him to be the real one and to step out of the frame and back into his life.

_The night that Sirius finds out about his lycanthropy is the first time he seriously considers leaving Hogwarts._

_ His friend catches him returning in the early morning hours, nursing a painful bite on his forearm._

_ "Dog?" he asks from his bed._

_ Remus jumps, not knowing he was awake._

_ "Yes," he says, and he struggles to remember what his excuse for leaving yesterday was. "My aunt has a spaniel with quite the set of jaws. I think I upset him when I came too near to his food."_

_ "Please don't lie to me, Remus," answers Sirius. "I know."_

_ Remus isn't sure whether to keep lying or to give in. "Know about what?"_

_ "You're a werewolf."_

He tears himself away from the picture and keeps walking, slowly, heavily. It takes him twice as long as it should to finally reach Sirius' room. He enters, and immediately a wave of nostalgia hits him. It is only then that it occurs to him that he has never been in this room. He smiles bitterly at the posters of the Muggle girls. He shakes his head and thinks to himself, _only Sirius._ Awkwardly he sits on the bed and takes everything in. It is then that he notices the picture of the Marauders.

_He wanted desperately to deny it, but his rationality refused. "How long have you known?"_

_ "Not long," he admits._

_ There is a long silence, and Remus supposes that Sirius is considering going to Dumbledore right then and requesting that he be removed. He sighs heavily and goes to sit on his bed. Ashamedly he looks out the window. "If you want me gone, I'll go."_

The picture was taken in their fourth year, just before they left for the summer. James was only partially paying attention, because he had wanted to say goodbye to Lily before she left. His picture self kept looking distractedly to the side. Peter looked bewildered, as he usually did, to be hanging out with James Potter. He kept smiling weirdly. Sirius had thrown his arms around both Peter and Remus and kept jokingly trying to make them do a kickline with him. Remus' heart pounds loudly as he watches. He wants to scream out, wants to curse and kick until someone finally brings Sirius back to him. He finally crumples to the floor, still holding the frame.

_Another long silence ensues in which Remus does everything he can to keep himself from crying. He should have known this was coming; it was only a matter of time._

_ "Why would I want you gone?" Sirius' voice is closer than it should be, and Remus jumps when he realizes his friend is sitting right next to him._

_ "I'm a werewolf," he says bitterly. "The scum of Wizarding society, a filthy half-breed, a bloodthirsty animal. Why would you want me here?"_

_ "Because you're my friend, and that's what matters, isn't it?"_

_ Remus dares to look up at Sirius, whose eyes glittered with sincerity._

_ "Yeah," he answers. "Yeah, I guess."_

_ Sirius puts an arm around him. "That's what I thought."_

For the first time in a very long time, Remus cries.

Author's Note: Yes, I know Peter is still alive at this point. For all intents and purposes, however, he is dead because he has betrayed his friends and forsaken them for a lifetime of servitude to Voldemort.


	10. Come November

Come November

_I don't wanna live in limbo, baby_

_I don't wanna come home to an empty bed_

_.  
><em>

He finds it unfair that he can only have her one day a year.

Although he tries, he can never quite feel guilty for cheating. It doesn't feel like cheating, not with Hermione, because they have been friends for so long and she knows him so deeply. It doesn't feel wrong.

And so, once a year, on the anniversary of their moment, they are together. They are together so deeply, so completely, that he wishes this day was every day, and he wishes twenty-four hours would never end.

In a way, he supposes in his guiltier moments, the moments in which he tries to justify himself, Ron has brought this upon himself. He left, that night, and left a broken woman and his best friend behind. It is his fault.

He has no justification for his own behavior, in truth, and in the moments he thinks about this he swears to himself that he won't see her this year, he will let it pass like every other day and pretend to be satisfied.

And then the day comes, and he can't say no to her, not when she comes to him and looks at him like he is everything—and once a year, he is everything.

After seven years, he aches to be everything.

They lay together, his fingers tangled in her hair, and he thinks that if the world was like this forever, he would be the happiest man alive.

"Hermione," he says, and it breaks his heart, "I can't do this anymore."

She leans over, her chin poised elegantly and his chest, and strokes his lower jaw. "I can't, either."

But then she lowers her lips to his chest, and everything starts all over again; his heart races, and he can't do this—

"Hermione, please."

She stops, looks at him with questioning eyes.

"I want you. I want you for more than a few hours once a year. I want you all day of every day, every hour, every minute. I lo—"

"Stop."

He obliges, and she sighs deeply.

"I want you, too," and the sorrow in her voice breaks his heart.

"You make it sound like that isn't enough."

"It's not," she says. "Ron, Ginny, our families, Harry—we can't leave them."

"I know." But because he does know, his heart breaks even further. "Then this is it? One day, one moment a year that we have to ourselves? And then what?"

"And then we go back to our lives, back to what we _should_ be."

"That isn't me, Hermione. This is me."

"And this is me." Slowly, she brings her lips up to meet his, and they kiss, and it feels like goodbye. "And I love you."

"And I love you." But he can hear in his own voice that he's inadequate.

They lay there, his arm around her, for a long while, and she finally moves.

"Hugo will be missing his mum," she mutters, and the excuse falls flat. They both know it.

She gets up, dresses, and then comes back over to him, pulls him up, and kisses him with everything, and for that moment, she is everything.

"Goodbye," she says, and then she isn't.

He lays there alone, wondering what has happened, what will happen. And then he rolls over and sees the imprint her body has left in the bed, the imprint her heart has left on his. And he knows, he f_eels_, that this is her home. Their home. And she'll be home, come November.


End file.
